


Hidden Treasures

by manic_intent



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - The Witcher Fusion, Bear School!Illya, M/M, That Witcher AU with Illya as a witcher and Napoleon as a thief, Thief!Napoleon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:21:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22224772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: Illya looked the stranger over and dropped his hand down under the table, keeping it loose over his coin pouch.The stranger noticed—he smiled. “You’re quick to judge a man.” He had an accent that Illya couldn’t place.“Am I wrong?” Illya shot back.“It’s a long way from Amell,” said the stranger, correctly placing Illya’s accent. He reached across the table with a palm. “Napoleon.”Illya kept his hands to himself. “What do you want?”
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 68
Kudos: 809





	Hidden Treasures

**Author's Note:**

> For CC, who asked for TMFU: Illya/Napoleon, Anything set in the Witcher Universe.
> 
> I don’t normally do crossovers, but a Witcher ‘verse TMFU story was too funny an idea to pass up, given that Henry plays both Napoleon Solo and Geralt. I’ve played the 2nd and 3rd Witcher games, and read the books up until Tower of Swallows, which I couldn’t finish. I actually don’t remember much about the books or the games other than weird details (like becoming terribly drunk in one of the games and then losing all my clothes to my underwear) so this story is cribbed together from vague memories and wiki. 
> 
> You will not need to have read/watched/played the Witcher to read this. Context for people who aren’t familiar with the Witcher: it’s a dark fantasy universe where the Witchers are monster hunters that trained from various schools (Wolf and Cat, +Bear from the games), intentionally mutated to have supernatural abilities. Skellige is pretty much the Viking area.

Illya tucked himself into a far corner of the tavern, furthest away from the fire. He was served a bowl of stew, bread, and a tankard of ale by a serving girl who’d given his splint mail, two swords, and crossbow a sharp sidelong glance. She hadn’t offered any comment, and Illya had given nothing in response but coin and a grunt. 

The stew was rich and dense, with generous chunks of potatoes and carrots, leeks, and a thick slab of braised reindeer. The bread was black-crusted and fresh-baked, still warm from the oven. As to the company—the Skellige Isles didn’t see many foreigners this close to their blisteringly cold winters, and all other townsfolk would be busy preparing for the deep frost. The tavern was empty but for Illya, the serving staff, and someone wrapped up in a hooded, fur-lined cloak close to the fire. The stranger hadn’t looked up when Illya had come in. He was reading a book, turning the pages carefully with black-gloved fingers. 

There’d been a fine black horse tethered outside the tavern, too fine for seabound Skellige. Its tack and saddlebags were modest, but there was no hiding the beautiful line of its neck or the intelligent stare that it’d raked Illya with when Illya had walked by leading his plainer horse. A horse like that in a place like this usually only meant trouble. Illya ate quickly. As he polished off the stew and started on the ale, the stranger sat down at his table. 

Tall man, though not taller than Illya. Sloping shoulders, narrow waist, handsome square-jawed face with dark eyes cut warm with amusement. Soft dark hair, elegant black doublet, clean white shirt beneath. No visible weapons. This had to be the owner of the fine horse. Illya looked the stranger over and dropped his hand down under the table, keeping it loose over his coin pouch.

The stranger noticed—he smiled. “You’re quick to judge a man.” He had an accent that Illya couldn’t place. 

“Am I wrong?” Illya shot back. 

“It’s a long way from Amell,” said the stranger, correctly placing Illya’s accent. He reached across the table with a palm. “Napoleon.” 

Illya kept his hands to himself. “What do you want?” 

Napoleon kept his hand outstretched a moment longer and pressed his gloved palm to the table. He flicked his gaze over Illya’s swords. “Cat eyes, twin swords. You’re a witcher.” 

“Obviously.” Illya set his feet flat on the ground, ready to dive for a weapon. 

Napoleon grinned slyly at him. “No need to be so tense. I haven’t seen your kind around for a while.” He inclined his head at the silver medallion of a bear’s head around Illya’s neck. “Nor have I seen one of those. Usually, it’s a wolf or a cat.” 

“What do you want?” Illya had not come across any witchers in these lands, but he kept to himself. It was the way of the Bear School to be solitary, to rely on no one but themselves. 

“As it so happens, I require a witcher’s particular services. And I can pay. Four thousand orens.” 

That was a princely sum, but something about Napoleon’s demeanour raised Illya’s hackles. “Put up notice on boards.” 

“Isn’t that a rather roundabout way of doing things when we’re both right here? Besides, monsters and orens—aren’t those two of your favourite things?” 

“You don’t know me.” Illya drained his tankard and slammed it down, hard enough that there was an oath from the serving staff at the bar counter. Napoleon didn’t even flinch—his smile widened, as though Illya had performed a particularly interesting trick. “Leave me alone, stranger.” Getting up from his seat, Illya slung his scabbarded swords against his shoulders and picked up his pack, heading out of the tavern. 

Napoleon rose with him, following him out. “You haven’t even heard my proposal—” he yelped as Illya grabbed him by the scruff of his cloak, shoving him back a step. Illya wasn’t in the mood for trouble, let alone whatever Napoleon was up to.

“I _said_. Leave me alone.” Illya glared at Napoleon until Napoleon raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. Letting go, Illya unhitched his horse and hauled himself onto the saddle, nudging it into a quick trot past townsfolk busy salting fish and stitching pelts. 

Dorve was the largest town on the island of Undvik, surrounded by solid pines and hemmed in by steep slopes. A stone longhouse bisected its centre, flying the fire-and-forge flag of Clan Tordarroch. Bearded, heavyset clansmen guards patrolled the packed dirt streets and the spiked log fence, keeping a watchful eye on the tree-line. Most ignored Illya as he rode past, or gave him an appraising stare. Illya preferred to work in Skellige for just this reason. The fear and revulsion that greeted him on the mainland always left a sour taste in his mouth. 

Illya was half an hour’s ride out of Dorve when he realised that he was missing his medallion. Biting out a curse, Illya wheeled his horse around, heading back in a furious canter. The fine horse was nowhere to be seen outside the tavern, and no one had seen Napoleon come and go. Illya bit out a choice set of curses under his breath as he studied the ground, trying to pick out Napoleon’s tracks. Thankfully, there weren’t many horses in this part of town, away from the clan longhouse and barracks. 

Footprints and hoofprints led away from the tavern to the notice board. As with most town notice boards, it was mostly full of lost-and-found notices, requests for trade and supplies, and gossip. There was the occasional request for witcher work—Illya’s preferred way of finding work: it minimised the need for human contact. A new notice clung to the corner of the board. Written on expensive paper stock in a flowing hand was “Clan Tordarroch's Forge”, along with a little doodle of a bear’s head. 

Gritting his teeth, Illya ripped the paper off the board and crushed it. _Now_ he was in the mood for blood.

#

Perched against a steep ledge against snow-worn stone, Clan Tordarroch's Forge blew steam and smoke up against the mountain flank as it surveyed the rest of Undvik with its never-dying glow. The best weapons and tools in Skellige were made at the Forge, and it was always thick with smiths in their scarred aprons, shouting at their swarms of apprentices. Surefooted mules carried wagonloads of coal and materials up the well-worn road up to the Forge. During warmer days, Illya would be dodging merchants and mercenaries and guardsmen alike, all hoping to get their hands on some Tordarroch smithwork.

Against the chill of the oncoming winter, Illya cut a lonely figure up the slope. His horse snorted gusts of steam, unhappy at the cold and the climb. Illya ignored its complaints. The hot flush of rage had burned quickly into cold and leaden anger that twitched his fingers at his sides and took his teeth to grinding. Once he got his hands on Napoleon—

The fine black horse was nowhere to be seen outside the Forge or in the stables. Illya hitched up his horse and marched into the Forge, seething. Was Napoleon lost? Eaten by wolves? Illya walked into the stifling heat of the Forge and surveyed the controlled chaos with a furious glare. His reflection fetched up against new shields set against a wall close by: tall and golden-haired, leaner than the usual Bear School fare, clad from neck to toe in splintmail and leather stained green and black. 

“Illya!” A tall woman in an apron strode over from one of the bellows, directing an apprentice to take her place. “What are you doing here?” 

Illya forced a smile. “Sigrid. I’m looking for a thief.” 

Sigrid an Tordarroch frowned, folding her muscular arms over her chest. A thick black braid was wound against her neck, and burn scars knotted her skin—the mark of a smith. Sister of the Jarl of Undvik, the Forge was Sigrid’s domain, which she ruled with an iron fist. Illya couldn’t often afford her services, though they were well-worth saving for: she’d made his splintmail five years ago, and it’d saved his life several times since. Sigrid gestured at Illya, and they walked out from the Forge into the snow. 

“What manner of thief?” Sigrid asked. 

Illya described Napoleon to her and showed her Napoleon’s note. “He took my medallion in Dorve.” 

Sigrid snorted. Undvik bred hard people against the snow and stone, an uncompromising sort with little patience for thieves and their victims. “I didn’t think a witcher could be so careless. Not with something as important as your medallion.” 

“Not normally,” Illya admitted. Napoleon had to be a very gifted thief. “He said he would be here.” 

“Or he wanted to divert you here.” 

Illya had thought of this possibility on the way up and had grudgingly dismissed it. “He wants my help. Didn’t look the sort to collect Witcher medallions.” The people who did were usually bladesmen, looking for an ugly way to boast of their prowess. Illya had killed his share of them over the years. 

“I’ll ask around the Forge. Wait here.” Sigrid ducked back indoors. Illya leaned against a post, watching the road with his arms crossed over his chest. It stayed empty as Sigrid emerged with a wrapped bundle, pinned with a note that wore a familiar doodle of a bear’s head. 

“I don’t like this,” Sigrid said, as she tossed the bundle to Illya. “Those have been awaiting collection in the Forge for over a month. Materials, schematics, and payment were all provided upfront. No one remembers the client.” 

Illya unwrapped the bundle. Two beautiful swords gleamed at him against the dull cloth, beautifully made. One silver, one steel. He drew the silver sword, hefting it in his hand as it flashed its keen edge against the grey evening. It was perfectly made and balanced. Illya sheathed it. “I hate mysteries,” he said. He turned over the back of the note. There was a single word on it: “Urskar”. 

“Smells like magic,” Sigrid said, with a nod at the note. “Maybe that’s why you didn’t notice your medallion getting stolen.” 

“Maybe.” Illya scowled. “Thanks. For help.” 

“Not a problem. Use those blades well.” Sigrid flashed him a wry smile. “Personally, it’d be an honour if you do. Even given the circumstances. They’re some of the finest blades I’ve ever made.” 

“We’ll see.” Wizards, druids, sorceresses—Illya disliked them all. Power tended to have a corrosive effect on the human soul.

#

Napoleon was waiting for him on a hill beyond the road to Urskar, mounted on his fine horse. The plain tack and saddle were gone, replaced by scaled black leather, ivory tassels, and pendants and buckles of bone. The fur cloak Napoleon wore was now an ashen cloud that swallowed all but the playful smile he wore, caught at his throat by a jade clasp depicting a snake eating its tail. The bear-headed medallion hung from his gloved fist, glowing brightly in the presence of magic.

It was an ugly hour in the morning, nowhere close to dawn. Illya had ridden through the night to get from the Forge to Urskar, fuelled by the cold weight of his rage. He grit his teeth as he saw the medallion, but as he opened his mouth to snarl, Napoleon tossed it at him. Illya snatched the medallion out of the air. 

“I’m still going to give you a beating,” Illya told him, retying the medallion around his neck. 

“If you can catch me,” Napoleon said, unrepentant. “Did you like your gift? I thought it’d get your attention.” 

Illya was briefly tempted to throw the new swords in Napoleon’s face. To wheel his horse around and ride back toward the Forge in a high dudgeon, nevermind the treacherous slopes and the bone-deep chill of the night. He scowled instead, clenching his hands over the pommel of his saddle. “How did you know that I would be here?” He’d only decided to come to Skellige on a whim, and he had told no one. 

“I’ve had my eye on a handful of your kind for a while. Bear School Witchers do like visiting Skellige now and then.” Napoleon smiled warmly at Illya. “I’m glad it was you. You’re a prettier sight than the usual sort for your School. Illya is your name, isn’t it?” 

“What do you want?” 

“Something is sleeping under Undvik. Something old, whose dreams are powerful enough to stretch the fabric between worlds thin where it sleeps.” 

“Undvik feels fine to me,” Illya said, narrowing his eyes. There was a perennial siren problem, harpies, and the usual trolls and such in this part of the world. Nothing beyond the pale. “The only strange thing I’ve seen here so far is you.” 

Napoleon let out a dry laugh and stroked the throat of his horse. “The Dreamer is only going to get stronger with time. Help me. You can keep the swords, and I have orens to spare.” 

“Deal with whatever it is yourself, wizard.” 

“I’m no wizard.” At the incredulous snort that Illya made, Napoleon made a self-deprecating gesture at the horse. “I’m a thief, and a very good one if I can say so myself. Unfortunately—”

“Stole the wrong thing from the wrong person?” Illya cut in bluntly. The horse stared at him unblinkingly, its eyes bleeding pale fire into the night. “That’s a creature of the Wild Hunt, isn’t it?” 

The Wild Hunt, or the Wraiths of Mörhogg, as the people of Skellige called them, were raiders and slavers that often travelled as spectral projections in the sky, sometimes aboard their ship, the _Naglfar_. In Skellige, it was believed that the Hunt would return as an army during Ragh nar Roog—the end of the world. Like many witchers, Illya had no use for uncorroborated superstitions, but the scars of the occasional raids that the Wild Hunt conducted on Skellige were hard to ignore. 

Napoleon shuddered, looking sharply around them. “Don’t mention Them so casually. Not here, with their dreams so close to ours. You’re broadly correct. A long time ago I might have taken something I shouldn’t have, using a way I shouldn’t have, and here we are.”

“Why now? Here?” Illya had been to Undvik before, usually to get his gear repaired. He trusted Sigrid with it and no other. 

“The Hunt has been growing stronger. They’d be strong enough soon to emerge where they please. There’d be nowhere to hide at the peak of their power, but there are ways to slow that down.”

“This ‘Dreamer’ you speak of,” Illya said. “A monster?” 

“Probably. I’m not too sure.” 

“I don’t know what you’ve heard of witchers, thief, but we don’t tend to kill sentient creatures.”

“I didn’t ask you to kill it. I want to wake it up.” Napoleon flashed one of his annoying smiles. “Simple enough work for a witcher, surely.” 

Illya glowered at Napoleon until his smile faded. “I’m not an idiot. Two fine swords and money to wake some ‘dreamer’. The Hunt, will it come?” 

“It might,” Napoleon conceded. “Or worse.”

“Worse?” 

“The dreams thin the veils between the worlds. The Hunt’s just from one of them.” 

Illya exhaled, his breath a gritty plume of steam in the dusk. “Fine.” 

“You’ll help me?” Napoleon brightened up. 

“I have conditions. One, I keep swords. Two, you pay: four thousand orens. Three, you speak only when needed.” 

Napoleon laughed. “You drive a hard bargain, my friend. It’s a deal.”

#

The horse’s armour grew more elaborate the further they went into the growing mist. Gold and silver thread sketched intricate patterns along the saddle, and tiny pearls wove themselves into the horse blanket. Napoleon led them away from the towns and farms, down into a narrow chasm that barely fit their horses. Illya kept casting uneasy glances to the sliver of stars high above them. This would be a perfect place for a trap.

“Don’t worry,” Napoleon said, startling Illya into flinching. “If I wanted to kill you, I would’ve done it outside Urskar.” 

“A thief would find me hard to kill,” Illya said, contemptuous. 

Napoleon chuckled, petting the throat of his mare. He did that often—stroking its mane, petting the flank. “I don’t doubt it.” 

Illya grimaced, muttering an oath under his breath. The horse whickered, flicking up its ears. “That thing you’re riding,” Illya said. 

“Nice horse, isn’t she?” Napoleon’s shoulders tensed a little. 

“If she was a true horse, yes.” Illya sniffed as Napoleon went quiet. “I’ve been around horses all my life, thief. That is not a horse. What is she, cursed?” He’d seen Elder Curses work themselves out in uglier ways. 

“Gabriel isn’t cursed.” 

“But she is what you stole from the Hunt.” 

Napoleon went quiet as the ravine narrowed down until their knees were brushing against stone. He straightened up in the saddle as the ravine opened out into a cylindrical clearing, a set of five boulders ringing a stone altar, all overgrown with lichen and moss. The horse took him to the closest boulder and braced herself as Napoleon stood in the saddle, brushing away lichen to reveal a jagged symbol. He did this for every boulder before stopping at the altar, peering at the patterns carved on the stone. 

“Here sleeps Myrhyff,” Napoleon read aloud. “The Lord of Undvik.” 

“The Lord of Undvik is Jarl Harald an Torrdarroch,” Illya said. 

Napoleon glanced at him. “I’m only reading what’s written on here.” 

“A tomb?” Illya nudged his nervous horse out to the altar. There were two other gashes in the stone beyond, two ravines snaking out into the dusk. “This is not how Skelligers bury their dead.”

“Probably not.”

“All right, thief.” Illya drew his horse up beside Napoleon’s and grabbed Napoleon by the scruff of his smoky cloak. “Answers. Now. What is Dreamer? What did you steal from Hunt, and how? Why is the Hunt here?” 

“I’m not sure about the last part,” Napoleon said, as his horse snorted loudly and stamped a hoof. “I know they’re looking for a person who was born to this world. I’m not sure who.”

“The rest?” Illya hissed as Napoleon’s horse shouldered against his, startling it into backing off and prancing. Gabriel wheeled around, light on her hooves, snorting loudly and pawing the ground until Napoleon murmured into her ear. 

“Once there was a school of witchers in Nilfgaard—” Napoleon began.

“The Viper School, yes. What about them?” 

“I’m trying to explain,” Napoleon said, the first sign of frustration leaking from him. He took a slow breath as Gabriel whickered. “They studied the Wild Hunt. Collected relics and such. Tried to pinpoint outposts between the worlds. They believed that the Hunt _would_ bring the end of days—not because of fate or prophecies or anything but because they were led by a war-hungry king who needed resources from conquest to fuel his dying civilisation.” 

“As is the way of kings and fools,” Illya said. 

“Quite. Political philosophy aside, it turns out that Nilfgaard wasn’t particularly excited about having a school of witchers around and got rid of them. Tends to happen. Can’t imagine why people aren’t keen on a cult of people who experiment on children using mutagenic methods with a high mortality rate to turn them into emotionally constipated monster hunters, but there you go.” 

“Careful,” Illya grit out. 

“A week after the Usurper destroyed their keep, I happened to be passing through the area—”

“Happened,” Illya repeated, with a curl to his lip. “Gorthur Gvaed, the Viper Keep, was in Tir Tochair chasms. Hard to find by someone ‘passing through’, thief.” 

“All right, all right.” Napoleon held up his palms. “Witcher gear and schematics and such tend to be worth a lot of money to the right people. It wasn’t too hard to follow the Nilfgaardian army’s trail to the keep. They’d set it on fire and burnt it to the ground by the time I got there, but the Vipers were pretty good at building hidden vaults. Sadly for them, hidden vaults happen to be my speciality, and cracking one open was easy enough.” 

“You’re modest,” Illya said sourly. 

“Modest people tend to be tedious people. Where was I? Right. There were the usual things in a vault like that. Books and things. I left those alone and picked up some schematics, some materials, and that was when I saw the damnedest thing. A puzzle box made out of dimeritium and sandalwood. It took me half a day to crack that. Inside it was a jade clasp for a cloak. An ouroboros.” Napoleon touched his fingertips to the clasp at his throat. “Pretty thing. I put it on, took a step, and found myself somewhere else.” 

Illya frowned at him. “Never seen a portal stone like that.” 

Napoleon ignored him. “I found myself knee-deep in snow, under a sky with two moons. No way back. Trudging on for a bit, I reached a stone enclave.” The horse whickered uneasily, ducking her head, and Napoleon stroked her neck. “Inside it… The Hunt was experimenting on unicorns. Blinding them, breaking them… using mutagens and magic. Trying to breed a new sort of destrier, one that they could use to open the way between all the worlds. Between all dimensions.”

“Is that…?” Illya studied Gabriel more closely. She stared back, unblinking. 

“Not quite a unicorn, not quite a horse. Something new.” Napoleon patted her throat as Gabriel snorted. “The unicorns in there—they were all near death. There was a weakened black foal alone in a stall. No horn—it’d been left to die. I don’t even know… somehow I got past the guards and got to it without knowing it was there. I picked it up and there was a flash of light, and I found myself back in the vault. I’ve been on the run from the Hunt since. That’s my story.” 

Illya looked Napoleon slowly over. “The clasp. Take it off.”

“What?”

“The jade clasp.” Illya held out his hand. “Take it off.” 

“I… why?” 

“I want to look at it. Take it off.” 

Napoleon chuckled. “Oh, come on, there’s no… ah. Illya. Easy now.” 

Illya had drawn his crossbow, winching up a bolt. “This will easily kill one of you,” he told Napoleon and Gabriel, “and if you know anything about the Bear School, you know I won’t miss. The clasp. Take it off. Throw it over.” 

“Illya—” Napoleon hesitated with a frown as the horse whickered and stamped. “All right. I’m taking it off.” He unclasped the cloak, which turned into regular travel-worn fabric as the jade clasp was pulled off. Gabriel huffed loudly as Napoleon tossed the clasp at Illya, who caught it one-handed as his medallion began to hum. Sketching the triangular sign for Aard in the air, Illya blasted the buckle against the closest pillar. It shattered into splinters that disappeared into the grass. 

Napoleon gasped, scratching at his throat and struggling for air. He toppled out of the saddle, landing with a yelp on his flank and clenching a hand over his chest, shaking and wheezing. The horse backed up in alarm, snorting loudly, then huffed as Illya dismounted, menacing her with his crossbow. “Back off. Slowly now,” he told her as he knelt beside Napoleon. The thief clutched at Illya as he started to go blue, unable to breathe. 

“Partial backlash from the spell breaking,” Illya guessed, glancing back at the ravine they’d come from. “There’s a druid enclave near the coast, but we won’t get there in time. You’re drowning on the air itself.” 

Gabriel whinnied. She lowered her head and rubbed her saddle against the closest stone. When Illya frowned at her, she stamped urgently and did it again. “The saddle and tack,” Napoleon whispered in between gasps for air. “She says. Take it off. Burn it.” As Illya stared, Napoleon rasped, “Please.” 

“Fuck.” Illya decocked the crossbow and latched it onto his back, approaching Gabriel warily. The mare stood still, trembling as Illya hastily removed her saddle and tack, then the blanket and saddlebags for good measure. Tossing it on the floor, Illya burned the lot with a quick sketch of the Igni sign in the air, igniting leather and fabric alike. 

The horse screamed, rearing in the air. Illya backed off, reaching for his silver blade, hesitating as Gabriel tossed her head and stumbled drunkenly, leaning against one of the stone pillars. Elder symbols glowed across her neck and flank, fading one by one. Gabriel’s flanks were steaming when they were gone. 

“Not bad,” Napoleon said in a rough approximation of his normal voice, “though that was rather more dramatic than what I was hoping for.” He yelped as Illya pressed the silver blade of a small dagger against his throat. “Again?” 

No flinch from the silver, no sign of a burn. Napoleon was human enough. Illya glanced at the horse and back at his medallion, which had gone quiet. “Talk.”

“For someone who wanted me to stay quiet unless necessary—ouch, _ow_ , all right,” Napoleon said hastily as Illya pressed the edge of the dagger into his flesh. “I’ll talk, but we need to get out of here first. We really, really don’t want to wake up what’s down there.” 

Illya had guessed as much. “One wrong move, I shoot you and the horse.”

#

They found an old trapper’s encampment beyond the ravines, one that had likely been used recently, judging by the new stockpile of logs and the state of the cooking spit. Illya motioned the still-shaky Napoleon to take a seat on a rock and kept an eye on Gabriel, holding his crossbow over his lap.

“How did horse know what to do?” Illya asked. Spells worked in strange ways, and the backlash from old spells—old curses—was unpredictable. 

Napoleon looked at Gabriel and back at Illya. “She said you had to break both anchors to the spell for it to rebound on the mage that cast it. She doesn’t know why she knows.” 

“Convenient,” Illya grunted. 

“Being the person who nearly died while it was still inconvenient, I’m fine with that.” 

“She speaks to you. Not to me?” 

“Her… the other unicorns in the outpost arranged that somehow, I think. I understand her, but only me. My turn. How did you guess something was wrong?” Napoleon asked. 

Illya curled his lip. “I told you. Nothing is wrong with Undvik or Skellige. Other than you: a man and a not-horse under a magical compulsion, one that grew stronger the closer you were to finishing a Task. Your gear. It was changing. Bad sign.”

“I knew it was a good idea to use a witcher.” At Illya’s frown, Napoleon said playfully, “Come on. With the amount of money I had, I could’ve hired a small army of Skelliger raiders to wake the Dreamer.” He sobered. “Not that I think this reprieve will last. The Hunt always gets what it wants. They’d find another way.”

“So what was Dreamer?”

“An ice giant, an old and powerful one.” Napoleon shivered. “The Hunt has a vendetta against Skellige, one that it’s willing to use other creatures to sate. I’d been dithering on this one for a while, but it was getting hard to delay it any further.” 

“Compulsion gave you a Task but leeway,” Illya said. Not enough to tell Illya the entire truth about the matter, but enough that Napoleon could decide to wait for a witcher. 

Napoleon nodded. “How did you know it was the clasp that was the focal point?” 

“Please. You found it in puzzle box of dimeritium and sandalwood. Inside hidden vault in Viper School, which specialises in studying the Hunt. What else could it be but dangerous magical artifact of Wild Hunt? It led you to outpost. Assume you were captured.” Napoleon nodded slowly. “Outpost like that would have had elite commanders. Aen Elle mages. Surprised they did not kill you outright.” 

“I suppose they were impressed with my resourcefulness.” 

Illya sniffed. “Maybe. But to let you go? With a Compulsion that gave you this kind of leeway? With a horse like this? No. The Aen Elle are not like that.”

Napoleon looked up at Gabriel, which whickered softly and trotted over, bumping her muzzle affectionately against his shoulder. “The unicorns,” Napoleon said after a while. “They were dying, but they weren’t that far gone. They pooled their strength and magic. Told me in my mind to bide my time, to take care of Gabriel. They did… _something_ to the mages. Stopped them from killing me and got them to release me with Gabriel back to our world. Sometimes the Aen Elle contact me to do things for them, but for the most part, they’ve left us alone. Until recently.”

“You said they search. For a person born to this world.” 

Napoleon nodded. “A Child of Destiny, that’s all I know. I spent years trying to pick up her trail for the Hunt.” He pulled a face. “Now that I’m free, I think I’m going to pack up with Gabriel and go somewhere far away. Rivia, maybe.” Gabriel whickered, stamping her foot. “Oh, come on. We’ve spent years under the thumb of the Hunt. We deserve a break. Revenge can wait a few years.” 

“This hidden vault you found in the Viper School,” Illya said. “What happened to it?”

“I closed it up as I left. It’s probably still there, unless any survivors went back for it. Why?” 

Illya grunted. “Take me there.” 

“What? It’s a very long way to Nilfgaard; the Usurper absolutely hates witchers _and_ thieves, and—”

“Four thousand orens.” Illya folded his arms over his chest. “You have money?”

“No, because you burnt my saddlebags, even though I told you just to burn the saddle and tack.” 

“So you owe me. Money and favour. Guide me to Gorthur Gvaed. Find this vault.” 

“Why do you care? You’re from the Bear School.” 

“The Hunt has to be stopped. Before they find whoever they’re looking for. Gorthur Gvaed may have information.” Illya glared at Napoleon, then at Gabriel. “You both owe me.” 

Napoleon started to speak and hesitated as Gabriel whinnied and nuzzled his cheek. “Fine,” he said, holding up his hands, “but if we get caught by Nilfgaard, I’m saving my own skin.” 

“Ah.” Illya smiled tightly. “Thieves.”

#

“Civilisation!” Napoleon said, throwing out his hands toward the graceful city of white stone and red slate that rose against the backbone of snow-capped Mount Gorgon, lush forests, and a silvery mirror of a lake. “Beauclair, the jewel of Toussaint. The only worthy place to get a drink outside of Aedirn.”

“Never visited,” Illya said. He made it a point not to enter any form of ‘civilisation’ larger than a town if he could help it. “We go around.” 

“No, we aren’t. Weren’t you listening? Wine, man. Beauclair has fantastic wine. And food. And baths.” 

“Cities are trouble.” 

“Nonsense, you’d be fine. We sold your spare swords in Sodden. If you pass me one of your new swords, we’d just look like travelling mercenaries. One murder weapon each.” 

“No hiding eyes,” Illya said, pointing at his catlike eyes. 

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Napoleon said, winking. “People will see how gorgeous you are and forget the rest.” 

“Funny,” Illya growled. Napoleon had started flirting with him once they’d landed in Verden, and had kept up the annoying habit through their journey east, despite Illya’s attempts to discourage him. Illya had a suspicion that Napoleon knew the attempts were halfhearted. Napoleon _was_ very handsome.

“Gabriel will do something about them. Don’t worry.” Gabriel snorted loudly in assent. “You might have to tuck that pendant of yours under your armour, though.” 

Illya gave the not-horse a suspicious stare. He still wasn’t entirely clear what Gabriel could do, or how much of Napoleon’s account was true. The silver-tongued rogue was good at evading uncomfortable questions. Besides, some parts of his memory appeared genuinely addled. Napoleon didn’t know how he’d come into possession of the strange saddle, or how long he’d been wandering the Northern Kingdoms. Consequences of a permanent compulsion geas and/or long-term exposure to Elder _and_ unicorn magic, perhaps. 

“Fine,” Illya said, with a curt nod. “Stay close. Out of trouble.” 

“A drink, a bath, and good food. That’s all I want. Pickings are going to get slim once we head into the Empire proper.” 

“Fair enough,” Illya conceded, passing over one of his scabbarded swords. He could do with a bath. 

The Knights-Errant at the gates glanced at Illya but otherwise paid them both no particular heed as they rode into Beauclair. Illya tuned out Napoleon’s incessant chatter, trying not to tense up whenever he got close to a knight or a mounted merchant. No one stared at his eyes. No one shouted insults at him as he rode past or pulled their children out of sight. It was—

“Good feeling?” Napoleon asked. He wore an annoyingly knowing smile.

“Don’t lose my sword,” Illya muttered, hunching in on himself. He let Napoleon lead them to an inn close to the port called the _Kindly Ones_ , from which the scent of fresh-baked bread wafted. Illya did feel better after a bath and a shave, which put him in a good enough mood to grudgingly agree to play a hand of Gwent with Napoleon and a couple of sailors in the inn. 

“You were cheating,” Illya told Napoleon after, when they were preparing for bed in their shared room. 

“Cheating is such a strong word,” Napoleon said, though he grinned. The wild, fey look to his eyes tore Illya’s irritation into wry amusement. He was getting used to Napoleon and his ways. A dangerous sentiment for a witcher. 

Illya looked away as he sat on his bed. “What would you call it?” 

“Everyone had fun, so I’d say it was a fine game of Gwent.” 

“Where you cheated,” Illya said, pulling off his boots. He tensed up as Napoleon plopped down on the bed beside him, their knees inches away. “Napoleon.”

“What will it take for you to like me more?” Napoleon asked with a winning smile. “You’re so perilously grim. Is that a witcher thing? I would’ve made a poor witcher, if so.” 

Napoleon was too handsome to be a witcher, but Illya swallowed those words before they reached the tip of his tongue. “You’re drunk.” Illya could smell the wine on Napoleon’s breath. 

“Hardly. And you’re barely tipsy. Is that also a witcher thing?” 

“I don’t get drunk in cities.” It invited too much trouble. Illya shoved at Napoleon’s shoulder. “Move. To your bed.”

“I asked you a question.” Napoleon refused to budge. “I know the way we met was perhaps a little unconventional—” Illya sniffed loudly, “—but I’d have hoped you’d at least warm up slightly to me by now.” 

“What is there to like? You are thief.” 

“If you had such a huge moral objection to thieving, you wouldn’t be dragging me across half the known world to open a vault.” 

“Across half of Northern Kingdoms and part of Nilfgaard,” Illya corrected. “Not half of world.” 

“Ah, Illya. I find even your stubborn insistence on literal facts delightful.” Napoleon leaned in, smiling his fey, wild smile. “Your medallion. Let me see it.” 

“Why?” 

“Humour me.”

“I do that too often,” Illya grumbled, though he obliged, pulling his medallion out of his undershirt. Napoleon hooked it over, studying the fine detail on the snarling bear. With a mischievous wink, he raised it to his lips, pressing a kiss over steel teeth.

Illya hissed. He jerked the medallion away from Napoleon, hard enough that Napoleon yelped as it cut his lip. Shoving Napoleon down onto the bed, Illya kissed him, sucking greedily over his mauled lip, chasing the taste of fine wine on his tongue. Napoleon purred, hands sliding up over Illya’s shoulders to tangle in his hair, drawing him closer, ever greedy. It was greed that animated the soul of the thief beneath Illya, greed that had Napoleon moan Illya’s name and lift his chin, baring his pale throat enticingly. Illya bit down, infecting himself. It was greed that he snarled into Napoleon's ear, that turned his fingers jerky as he worked at their belts and the laces on their breeches. 

Napoleon laughed as Illya spat on his palm to take them both in hand, rolling to pin Illya against the wall and the bed. “I have a better idea, Peril,” he said, nuzzling Illya’s jaw. He kissed down Illya’s throat to his chest, winking again as he kissed the medallion on his way down. Illya sniffed, closing his hand on the back of Napoleon’s throat. Napoleon ignored the warning, pushing up Illya’s undershirt to nuzzle at the lean muscle packed on his frame, his breath warm against the fine hairs that trailed down past the hem of Illya’s open breeches. Napoleon winked again and kissed the tip of Illya’s cock. 

“Don’t fuck around,” Illya growled. 

“So terribly serious,” Napoleon said with mock sadness. “Can’t I have some time to appreciate this gorgeous bit of flesh?” He kissed the underside of the shaft in his hand. 

“ _Napoleon_.” 

“Ask me nicely,” Napoleon suggested. At the furious glance Illya shot him, Napoleon laughed. He curled his tongue playfully around the thickening head of Illya’s cock, but as Illya growled, Napoleon obligingly drank him down. Illya twitched, clenching his fists into the bed with a loud snarl as Napoleon blithely drank him down to the root, his nose pressed against the pale curls at the base. Illya groaned as Napoleon’s throat closed tight over his cock, then Napoleon was sucking at him as he drew slowly back, almost to the very tip before sinking back down with a greedy hum. 

Napoleon’s hands closed over Illya’s hips, tugging lightly. Illya let out a disbelieving huff, rolling his hips, groaning again as Napoleon only purred. Twisting his fingers into Napoleon’s dark curls, Illya took Napoleon slowly, ignoring the impatient tugs on his hips. Leaning up on one elbow, Illya tried to burn the sight into his memory: of this handsome, cunning man playing at being at Illya’s mercy. Of the arousal that coloured Napoleon’s cheek and throat, of the way he squirmed against the bed as Illya took control. 

Illya thrust against Napoleon in a slow-rolling rhythm until Napoleon stopped trying to push his pace, until they were sweating into the bed, until a snap of his hips drove Napoleon into moaning and humping the bed. Napoleon was panting as he went still, though the feyness stayed in his eyes as Illya thrust deeper with a low moan, finally angling to please himself. Napoleon swallowed—of course he swallowed—making a show of it as he did, swirling his tongue lazily up Illya’s softening flesh and smirking. 

“Good?” Napoleon whispered after, tucked against Illya and the wall. 

Illya closed his eyes. “Shut up and sleep.” Napoleon laughed, brushing a sticky kiss over Illya’s mouth.

#

The Viper Keep was a blackened ruin, flattened on a plateau against a cliff. The path that led up to it was fractured with debris and old stains, the ravine far beneath littered with rusting armour and the bodies of fallen soldiers that had been too difficult for the Nilfgaardian army to retrieve. The witcher school had not gone quietly into the dark. Illya smiled grimly to himself as he ascended the broken stone to the courtyard, leading his horse.

“That wasn’t there before,” Napoleon said, gesturing at the remains of a campfire close to the semi-intact stables. 

“It’s old. Stay alert.” Illya tethered his horse beside a dried horse trough and walked toward the ruin. A careful search indicated that people—perhaps survivors—had come and gone years ago. There had been some effort to tidy the Hall of the Keep, but most of the ruin had been left untouched. It would’ve been difficult for survivors to rebuild the keep by themselves, this far into Tir Torchair, deep within the Nilfgaardian Empire. It’d been hard enough for Illya and Napoleon to get this far unseen.

“Here,” Napoleon called. He and Gabriel were standing beside what had likely once been a training tower of some sort, with handholds set into its stone flanks. It lay shattered in several pieces against the courtyard now. Napoleon scuffed at the dirt floor, revealing a faint seam. He pushed down on a handful of pressure points in sequence around the tower, and mechanisms ground underfoot as a slab of stone moved away. Illya hooked a hooded lantern to his belt and descended the ladder, breathing in the stale air within. 

Napoleon was right behind him, casting a quick, professional glance around the vault. “No one’s been here since me, as far as I can tell,” Napoleon said. 

“You carried a horse up the ladder?” Even a foal would’ve been heavy. 

“It did take some doing.” Napoleon shot Illya an appraising stare. “This is it, then? Our debt’s complete?” 

“You’re leaving?” Illya was surprised—then annoyed at himself for being surprised. 

“Ruined witcher keeps aren’t to my taste any longer, after what happened the last time. I might head back to Beauclair. Have another bottle of Clairemont red, some pastries, a round of Gwent…” 

Illya forced himself to turn away, fingers twitching. This was why the Bear School walked alone. He should’ve kept the lessons he’d learned all these years closer by. “Debt is complete. Go.” Walking to the nearest shelf, he lifted his lantern to read the titles.

“That section’s mostly about botany. The stuff you’re looking for is over here.” 

Illya looked over, surprised. Napoleon grinned at him, leaning against a set of dusty shelves with his arms folded. “Long road to Beauclair,” Illya said, wary.

“Long and boring, with just Gabriel and I.” Napoleon turned to look at the shelves and hesitated as Illya shoved him back against a bookcase. 

“What are you playing at now?” Illya growled. His ugly temper didn’t faze Napoleon—Napoleon leaned in, pecking a kiss over Illya’s nose. 

“There are other vaults. If they’re as packed as this one, it’d take you years to go through all of them, let alone figure out how to open them. I’ll help.” 

“What about wine and Gwent?” 

“That was a test.” Napoleon tickled his fingers tenderly over Illya’s jaw. “To see if you considered yourself a friend or a jailer.” 

Illya grabbed Napoleon’s wrist. “Neither. I’m no friend of thieves.” 

“A lover, then.” Napoleon kissed the edge of Illya’s mouth, utterly shameless. As Illya sucked in a shuddering breath, Napoleon lowered his voice. “Gabriel and I have our own score to settle with the Hunt. Having a witcher around would help.” 

Illya leant in, pressing his forehead against Napoleon’s and breathing him in, sweat and trail dust and musk. It was an intimacy that Illya was ill-used to, one that he wasn’t sure if he liked. He kissed Napoleon anyway, tentative at first, then tenderly, when Napoleon pressed eagerly against him. 

“Fine,” Illya whispered. “You take this side. I look there.” 

“I told you that part was about botany.” 

“You were here to steal. Now we are here to study.” Illya patted Napoleon’s cheek. “You want to help? Learn. Fast.” 

“I’m beginning to have second thoughts about my decision to stay,” Napoleon told him, though he pecked Illya teasingly on the cheek and laughed as Illya growled, pulling him into a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: @manic_intent  
> my writing, prompt policy: manic-intent.tumblr.com


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